


Revelations and Revolutions

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: Summer and Fall 2015 [9]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Coach Bittle visits Bitty at Samwell after Bitty comes out.





	Revelations and Revolutions

**Author's Note:**

> This fits in this 'verse between Three Visits and Springtime and Possibilities. I meant it to be a quick one-shot; nearly 10,000 words later ...  
> next week we return to our regularly scheduled programming, with a new chapter of Springtime and Possibilities.  
> Not beta'd, and, as always, I own none of these characters.

Coach Richard Bittle peered out the airplane window at the water beneath him.

There was water, and there were ships, and then there was the runway rushing up to meet the plane and the bump that meant they were on solid ground again.

Coach waited for the plane to come to a halt before standing up and pulling his winter coat out of the overhead bin and pulling it on over his sweater. The sweater was red, one of the ones he sometimes wore on the sidelines for the Morgan County Bulldogs football games. It would do as well for Junior’s Samwell hockey team, he figured.

He waited until he had shuffled his way off the plane, into the gate area, to text Suzanne and Junior.

_Landed. Headed for car rental counter._

Suzanne replied first.

_Glad you made it. Hug Dicky for me._

He almost snorted when he saw it. Apparently, nothing -- not growing up, moving a thousand miles away, introducing his boyfriend -- nothing would change the way Suzanne looked at Junior. He’d always be her little boy, needing hugs and kisses and coddling. But she was his mama; that was her prerogative.

 _Will do,_ he responded.

He was at the car rental counter when his phone buzzed again.

Junior this time.

_Just got out of class. Meet me outside the locker room after the game? Coaches and Lardo know I’m staying with you in Boston. See you tonight!_

And then there was a smiley face picture. How had he ever thought it would be a good idea for Junior to play football?

It was his turn at the counter, and he signed for a Nissan Altima. The clerk -- a man maybe a bit older than him -- handed over not keys, but a plastic fob with buttons to lock and unlock the doors and open the trunk.

He looked at it for a moment, and the man jumped in with an explanation.

“You don’t need a key for the ignition,” he said. “There’s a button on the dashboard. You just have to make sure this thingy is close enough to the dash. There’s a little compartment in the console that most people use.”

Coach nodded that he understood. He probably could have figured that out, but the way the man reeled off the information made him think he wasn’t the first person to look confused.

He took the folder with the rental agreement and the number of the stall and headed out to the parking garage.

The air was cold, but not unreasonably so, and it smelled of exhaust. He didn’t think he ever could get used to living in a city this big, or one where this weather counted as good.

It was almost 3 p.m. Junior’s game started at seven, so he had time for a little sightseeing.

The airport road was easy enough, and he followed the signs to the Sumner Tunnel. He ended up at Boston Common, stopping to read plaques and check his guide book. He was surrounded by history and modern sports fields and playgrounds. In some ways, it reminded him of Madison.

There were people on an outdoor skating rink -- although that didn’t look anything like a real Frog Pond. There was nothing like that in Georgia.

As the sky darkened and the wind kicked up, Coach tugged the zipper of his jacket towards his chin. He remembered to be grateful for the gloves and hat Suzanne had insisted on.

He stopped to watch the skaters for a few minutes. Most people just skated laps around the perimeter -- young couples holding hands, groups of teenagers, parents and children. In the middle were a handful of skaters -- nearly all girls -- twirling and spinning and very occasionally making a small jump. He remembered when Junior first started skating. He was spinning like that when he was what, 9 or 10? He’d come home with Suzanne, so proud of himself, talking a mile a minute about the new things he’d learned from Katya. Coach hadn’t really listened then. He thought it was just a phase.

There was one boy in the center of the Frog Pond. After all the girls moved to the side, the boy took off in a bigger jump than any Coach had seen that afternoon. The light glinted on his skates, and Coach was reminded more powerfully of Junior. The boy grinned after landing and sweeping his leg across the ice, and the girls clapped for him.

Once upon a time, Coach tried to tell himself that Junior liked figure skating so much because so many of the girls he skated with admired him. And it seemed like a good sport for him, as small as he was. But by the time Junior was 15, he was pretty sure Junior wasn’t skating for the access to girls. He skated, Coach thought, for the pure joy that flying across the ice brought him. Out there, all alone, he was untouchable.

Maybe Coach had never even tried to stand on skates, but he was enough of an athlete to admire the strength and flexibility and coordination and balance that skating took. Coach had been proud of Junior, of his skills and the ribbons and trophies he won. If you could say you were proud of something you didn’t want anyone else to know about.

The year Junior was 15 was the year they moved to Madison, away from the boys who had locked Junior in a closet overnight, the boys who were entering high school and starting to play on Coach’s high school team. Coach had been quietly looking for a new job since the closet incident; he had thanked the Lord that the Madison position had come open that year. There was no way he would be able to coach those boys and be fair to them.

Junior quit skating when they moved, too far away from Katya for daily training to be practical. There was no one else in Georgia at that level, and Suzanne said Junior would rather quit than move away from home.

Coach hadn’t questioned it. He was happy enough not to be paying Katya’s fees anymore. When Junior asked to join the hockey club, he didn’t bat an eye at the cost of equipment, although he wondered whether the sport would be a good fit. The hulks who played hockey -- and with all the pads on, even the girls looked like hulks -- seemed to have nothing in common with the sprites who sparkled on the ice.

Junior had seemed happy enough at Morgan County High School, Coach thought. He sometimes visited hockey friends, or had them over to the house, but he didn’t go to the kinds of parties the football players talked about when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Only once had he heard Junior’s name -- well, not his name, just “Coach Bittle’s kid” -- come up in a conversation not meant for his ears. He’d put his head out of the office quick enough that the sentence was dropped. He never learned what would have come next.

Otherwise, Junior spent an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, and in his room on his computer. He seemed content, if quiet, and Coach assumed he’d find a state school to go to in Georgia.

After all, colleges didn’t give athletic scholarships to club players who took up a sport two years earlier. Even if their football coach fathers did reach out to college football coaches in the Northeast and asked them to put in a good word to the athletic director at a non-football school where their sons wanted to play hockey.

Until Samwell did offer a scholarship. Not a full ride, of course, but enough to make sending Junior there doable.

Coach ambled away from the Frog Pond as snow started to fall. He found a Dunkin’ Donuts (more like he stopped in the first one he passed; he could see two more) and got a coffee, then ransomed his car from the lot and got directions to the hotel he had booked in Newton, a couple of miles from the Boston College arena.

Tomorrow he and Junior could take in some of the Freedom Trail, he thought.

The hotel was fine, and his ticket was waiting at will-call at the Conte Forum as promised.

He found his seat near a knot of Samwell supporters, and settled in to watch his first NCAA hockey game.

The players skated out for warmups to cheers and air horns and cowbells. Picking out Junior was easy, even before he saw the 15 emblazoned on his back. He was easily the smallest on the Samwell team, the smallest on the ice. He lapped the Samwell half of the rink, jockeying and joking with two of the biggest players on the team, Oluransi and Birkholtz, according to their jerseys. Coach was pretty sure he’d heard about them, but as Ransom and Holster. Junior was scanning the crowd as he lined up to shoot on the net, and grinned broadly when he saw his father. When the shooting ended, Junior joined the team at the net, picking up extra pucks and stopping to slap the goalie on the helmet. 

When the game started, Junior was lined up to the right of the center, and took off towards the other team’s blue line as soon as his team snared the puck. He took a pass, carried it in toward the net, passed, saw the other player’s shot deflect and get picked up by BC. He turned and skated back, overtaking most of the other team, then headed off for the bench as soon as his team took possession.

Jack was right; Junior was fast. 

His line came out every three or four shifts, and Coach couldn’t take his eyes off him when he was out there. He could see the grace that came from years figure skating, and the way he turned so much more quickly and cleanly than the other players.

He wanted to turn to the people next to him and say, “That’s my son!” but he controlled himself.

The game went back and forth for the first 20 minutes, with nobody scoring. It got rougher in the second period; the Eagles were trying to use their use their size to push the Samwell team around.

Samwell used their speed to get around BC as much as they could, and they scored when Oluransi made a booming shot that ricocheted off the BC goalie and someone named Tangredi poked it in.

On his next shift, Junior was skating next to the boards near BC’s blue line, waiting for a pass, when one the BC players skated into him from the side, his elbow coming up to knock into Junior’s helmet. He went down to the sound of a whistle.

Coach was on his feet with most of the crowd, the Samwell fans protesting the hit and the BC fans protesting the penalty. Coach was silent, straining to see Junior over the boards. Profanity turned the air blue around him as Junior pushed himself to his feet and skated off to the bench.

He tried to take a seat, but was tapped on the shoulder by a trainer and escorted to a tunnel. Concussion protocol. Coach breathed again a minute or two later when he saw Junior resume his seat on the bench. Samwell had scored on the power play during his absence, but Coach couldn’t have said how it happened if you paid him.

The game only got rougher from there, but nothing else happened to Junior, who used his speed and his agility to avoid attempted hits. Twice players from Boston College collided with the wall when they tried to hit Junior -- they ended up where Junior had been a fraction of a second earlier. 

Birkholtz took a penalty for knocking down the player who’d clocked Junior, but he didn’t seem upset by it, even though Boston College scored on the power play.

With two minutes to go, BC pulled their goalie off the ice but failed to maintain control of the puck and Samwell scored again on the empty net. The game ended in a 3-1 victory for Samwell.

The unhappy crowd made their way out of the arena while Coach made his way down to the locker room and waited outside.

He couldn’t hear anything but indistinguishable voices -- the happy voices of young men who had just won a game, and the calm voices of coaches. Soon enough, the door opened, and the coaches came out. Through the door, he could see a tiny Asian girl yelling, “Listen up, bros! Bus is leaving in 30 with or without you, so shower up and get moving!”

The man with glasses was introducing himself. “Mr. Bittle? I’m Coach Hall. This is my assistant, Dan Murray.”

Coach shook their hands and said, “Thanks for letting Junior skip the bus ride back.”

“That’s fine,” Coach Hall said. “Players can always find their own way back. We just want to make sure we’re not stranding them. Your son played a good game tonight.”

“Thank you,” Coach said, as though the compliment was for him. But what else was there to say? 

“He’s a real asset to the team,” Murray chimed in. “One of the fastest I’ve seen.”

“And well-liked by his teammates,” Hall said. “You must be proud of him.”

“I am,” Coach said. “And not just for his hockey.”

The coaches moved along, and the girl Coach had heard yelling came out, trailed by the moist atmosphere of locker room.

“You must be Coach Bittle,” she said. “I’m Lardo.”

Coach nodded. He’d heard about her from Junior: she was the only person on the team smaller than him. Even if she didn’t skate.

“Junior’s talked about you,” he said. “He says you manage to keep these boys in line.”

“Not sure I’d go that far,” she said. “Listen, Bitty -- uh, Eric -- said you’re coming to our home game on Sunday? I’m pretty sure Jack will be there. I can get you tickets together if you want.”

Coach did not allow himself to feel intimidated by watching a college hockey game with a professional player. If he was uncomfortable about spending that much time alone with his son’s boyfriend, well, that would fade. He’d gotten used to his son figure skating; he’d gotten used to him living a thousand miles away; he was even getting used to the fact that he was gay and that he had a boyfriend. 

“Sounds good,” Coach said. “As long as Junior doesn’t mind.”

“I’ll make sure,” Lardo said, “But I think he’ll be fine with it.”

Then she stalked off after the coaches.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

“Coach?” Junior was standing in a shirt and tie and his hockey warmups, a book bag slung over his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Coach said. “You OK? That was some hit you took.”

Junior ducked his head and shrugged.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t think it was as bad as it looked.”

“Son, he hit you in the head with his elbow,” Coach said, heading to the parking lot. “Isn’t that supposed to be more than a two-minute penalty?”

Junior snorted. “Supposed to be. But a lot of refs don’t want to call a major, especially if everyone gets up and skates away.”

“I figured we’d get dinner before we head to the hotel.” Coach said. “Italian all right?”

“Absolutely,” Junior said. “I’m starving.”

A half-hour later, Coach was wondering what he was thinking when he planned this weekend. Dinner and overnight and most of the day tomorrow alone with Junior? He loved Junior, more than anything (Suzanne excepted, because you couldn’t ask a man to choose between his son and his wife), but looking at the young man sitting across the table from him, he had no idea what to say.

Junior wasn’t much taller than he’d been over the summer, but he was broader across the shoulders than he had been in August. Coach hadn’t really noticed at the holidays -- maybe because he wasn’t looking, maybe because Junior had slotted himself into the Junior-shaped hole that seemed to exist when he wasn’t there. It didn’t leave much room for growth.

This was the little boy he’d taught to catch a baseball, to throw a football. The baby he’d rocked to sleep. The young man he’d taught to drive in the high school parking lot on Sunday afternoons.

But he’d gone away and grown up and suddenly Coach felt like he didn’t really know him anymore. He desperately wished that he did. He fished for an opening, finally coming up with, “So how’s Jack?” and the same time Junior offered, “How’s Mama doing?”

They both huffed, more a forceful exhale than an actual laugh, and then Coach dove in.

“She’s fine, told me to give you a hug for her,” Coach said. “Still sniping at your Aunt Judy, of course. Who knew she could get so riled over how to make jam?”

“Um, everyone who knows Mama and Aunt Judy?” Junior said. “And I hate to say it, but I’ve tried it both ways, and Aunt Judy’s works better.”

“Yes, I heard you told that to your mother,” Coach said. “I think that might be why she’s not letting go of this. Can you find something she does better and make a fuss over that? Or just tell her you changed your mind?”

“Coach, she’d never believe me, unless she saw me use her recipe, and I am not going to make less than my best jam,” Junior said. “But her cakes are the best.”

“Tell her that,” Coach said. 

“Will do,” Junior said. “What about everyone else? Aunt Barbara as sour as usual? MooMaw all right?”

The waiter came to take their order, and Coach was reminded of the times he’d taken Junior to Shoney’s after practice, back when Junior would follow him up and down the sidelines of the high school field. Back then, Junior was too bashful to order his own Mickey Mouse pancakes, although he'd talk a mile a minute to Coach.

Now he asked for a pasta dish Coach wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of, after interrogating the waiter on the technique used to make it. Coach ordered the chicken parmesan, his go-to in Italian places with tablecloths.

As soon as the waiter left, Coach picked up the thread of the conversation.

“Your Aunt Barbara is your Aunt Barbara,” he said. “I swear she’s mixed up the definitions of ‘handyman’ and ‘brother-in-law’ for all the work she has me doing. But your MooMaw is well. She’s hoping to make the trip up next year for your graduation, you know.”

“Really?” Junior sounded delighted. “That would be a long trip for her.”

“We could look into renting a more comfortable car,” Coach said. “Stop for a night on the road. I think she’d enjoy it. She’s so proud of you -- I hope you know that. She keeps asking after Jack, too.”

“Jack’s doing great,” Junior said. “He has a game tonight in Columbus. It should be ending soon.”

“So you two are doing all right?”

“We are,” Junior said. “I think he might come to the game Sunday. He has a game Saturday in New Jersey, so he’ll be home by the time we play.”

“Your manager said he was coming,” Coach said. “You really call her Lardo?”

“That’s how she introduces herself, so, yeah,” Junior said. “Her parents named her Larissa, but she hates it, so …”

“And she likes Lardo better?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She lives in the hockey house too?”

“Across the hall from me,” Junior said. “Well, not right across the hall. That's Chowder -- Chow, the goalie? -- and she's next to him. They share a bathroom. I share with Ransom and Holster, but they live upstairs in the attic.”

Coach nodded, like he understood why Junior was explaining all the living arrangements.

“They’ll all be at dinner tomorrow, and probably Dex and Nursey too,” Junior continued. “They're attached to Chow like Velcro, and they're usually at the Haus if we cook a community meal.”

“You do a lot of cooking for the team then?” Coach asked.

Junior shrugged again.

“It depends what you mean by a lot,” he said. “Most people go to the dining hall most of the time. But during the week I might make dinner once or twice, and on the weekend maybe one dinner and one breakfast, depending on our schedule during the season and if I'm around.”

Junior stopped short, like he'd let something slip.

“And I bake for them, of course,” he finished.

“So when you see Jack it's mostly in Providence?” Coach pursued. He was trying to communicate that he was OK with this thing, this relationship between his son and Jack Zimmermann. And he was, mostly, as long as he didn't think about it too hard. 

“About half and half,” Junior said. “But if I go to Providence, I usually stay the night because the shuttle from Boston to Samwell doesn't run very late.”

And there was the part Coach didn’t want to think about. But, to be fair to himself, he was pretty sure he wouldn't want to think about Junior spending the night with a girlfriend, either.

Junior’s phone vibrated next to his plate. He looked at it and put it down again.

“Jack’s game is over. Do you think we'll be back at the hotel in half an hour? We usually talk on Skype.”

“Sure, if you've had enough to eat,” Coach said. “No dessert?” 

“No, I'm good,” Junior said.

At the hotel, Junior wasted no time plopping his laptop on the desk and getting it ready for a video call. Coach puttered a bit, waiting until he saw Jack’s face on the screen.

“My dad’s here,” Junior said before Jack could say anything. 

Coach leaned over Junior’s shoulder, like he did at home when Suzanne was talking to Junior, and said, “And I'm just leaving. I'm going to go to the lobby to call your mother. I just wanted a chance to say hello to Jack.”

Jack nodded, and said, “Hello, Coach Bittle.”

“How was your game, son?”

Jack grimaced and said, “We lost. But it was close at least.”

“You'll get ‘em next time, then,” Coach said. 

He moved away from the screen and picked up his own phone. “I'll tell your mother you said hello,” he said to Junior before slipping out the door.

He ordered a bourbon in the bar, then sat in the lobby to call his wife.

“He looks good,” Coach said. “Seems like he put on some muscle. Maybe I just didn’t see it at the holidays, the way it was.”

“He’s up in the room on a video call with Jack. He said they try to do that every night when they’re not together. No, I can’t imagine ever telling my father that I spent the night with you before we were married, or knowing you told that to your father. He’d’ve come after me with a shotgun if you did.”

“No, I don’t suppose that did stop us.”

“So you think this thing with Jack is for real?”

“I hope you’re right, because if it falls apart, he’s going to be heartbroken.”

By the time they hung up and his glass was empty, a half-hour had passed. He wasn’t going to knock before entering his own room, but he did take his time fumbling with the keycard just in case.

He needn’t have worried. Junior was on the bed, in a T-shirt and track pants, typing into his computer.

‘“Schoolwork?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Junior said. “Answering comments on my vlog. It’s really gotten a lot more subscribers over the past year.”

Coach settled on the other bed with his magazine and turned on the TV to ESPN. SportsCenter had one brief clip of the Falconers game. That was the only time Junior’s eyes flicked to the screen.

When SportsCenter was over, Coach turned off the television and said, “I’m gonna get some sleep.”

“OK,” Junior said. “You can turn off the light, but you mind if I keep working?”

Coach fell asleep to the tapping of Junior’s keyboard, his face bathed in the light from the screen.

Junior must have finished at some point because when Coach woke up, Junior was curled up in the other bed, his computer on the floor next to him.

Coach showered and pulled on clean clothes as quietly as possible, leaving the room to Junior once again, He’d go downstairs, get breakfast, read the papers, let Junior sleep in a little. The boy had always liked to sleep in, for all that he spent so much of his childhood getting up at ungodly hours for figure skating practice. Coach supposed hockey practices weren’t quite that early. Then again, he seemed to remember Junior complaining about pre-dawn private checking practices with Jack. But that would have been before they got together, according to what Junior said.

Junior was up, dressed and about to come looking for Coach when Coach returned to the room.

“Breakfast downstairs?” he asked. 

“Yes. You go ahead, I'll make sure everything's packed up so we can check out.”

Junior nodded and headed down the hall, phone in hand. Coach showered and shaved, put his clothes back in his bag, and looked over to Junior’s side of the room. 

His computer was neatly tucked away, along with his charger, but there were some notebooks on the floor and his shirt and tie from last night over a chair. Coach stacked the notebooks on the desk and folded the shirt and rolled the tie. He could see clothes in an open compartment of Junior’s bag; he could put them in there.

When he pulled the bag open just a little wider, he spied a familiar pair of ears. Señor Bun. Coach hadn't really known that Junior still carried his stuffed rabbit around, but it made him smile. Junior was still his little boy, still the child whom Coach had adored, before everything got complicated.

He still adored him, of course, but now he worried over him, wondered about some of his decisions, was sometimes annoyed by his tendency to procrastinate and avoid issues and -- maybe this was the strangest -- was just a little bit intimidated by him.

He settled Señor Bun on top of the clothes and zipped the compartment shut. Junior returned and said, “Ready, Coach?”

“Sure,” Coach said. “I put your notebooks over there, and your clothes in your bag.”

If Junior had been embarrassed and hoping to hide Señor Bun, he didn't show it. He just said thanks, tucked the notebooks away and picked up the bag.

“I thought we could maybe go to the Constitution this morning,” Coach said. “Maybe a little sight-seeing if you're up for it? And if you need anything … your mother said you might want to go to one of those fancy grocery stores.”

Junior considered. “There's a Whole Foods in Providence, so I get most of what I need there. But maybe we could stop at Sur La Table? They have the best serrated peelers, and I could use an extra for the Haus for when the boys help me.”

How much could a peeler be?

They spent the morning in a flurry of cold air and, on Coach’s part at least, wonder, listening to the sailors on the USS Constitution, reading his booklet and plaques at the Old North Church and standing outside the capitol building.

How had the people who lived here managed to overturn the might of the British army and the expectations of the world? Coach was pretty sure they didn't look like anything special -- lawyers and artisans and merchants and farmers as they were. Affluent and comfortable, some of them, but nothing compared to the nobility of the king’s court. And affluence and comfort meant they had something to lose by taking up arms against England.

Coach said as much to Junior, who gave him a strange look before he said, “You should really come here with Jack. He loves this stuff.”

But when they were headed toward the cooking store, Junior spoke again. “I think the revolution worked because the Americans could imagine it, imagine a winning their independence. England -- or at least the king and the military -- didn't think it could happen, couldn't see a world where the colonies weren't like their poor stepchild, and they wanted to keep them in their place. For the colonies, wanting to be recognized, wanting to be treated with dignity, was enough to make them fight for it, and they fought their own way. For England, fighting for the status quo, well, maybe they just didn't think it could change. They never thought the rebels would win.”

Coach chewed on that while Junior found his peeler ($9), and they headed back to the car.

Junior directed Coach to Samwell, and asked him to stop at the grocery store on the way into town. 

“I thought I’d do a pot roast for tonight,” he said. “But I need to pick up the actual roast. And maybe more carrots. Potatoes and onions usually stay where I left them, but sometimes the carrots disappear.”

The store wasn’t anywhere near as big or modern as the Publix in Madison, but Junior seemed to find what he was looking for right away, and the cashier called him by name. A regular customer, then.

Finally they pulled up in front of the hockey house, one of a series of more-or-less dilapidated structures on what Junior called Frat Row.

“It’s not like a real Greek system,” he explained. “Most of them are groups who live together because they’re all part of a team or something like that, and the house becomes a base for the whole group, not just the ones who live there. We’ve got 23 on the team -- 24 if you count Lardo -- and only five of us live in the house.”

“Who decides who moves in?” Coach asked.

“When people who live in the Haus graduate, they choose which player to give dibs to,” Junior said. “So people who want to live in the Haus try to get on the residents’ good side by doing chores or other favors.”

“So I’m guessing you baked a lot of pie?” Coach said.

“I guess?” Junior said. “I really didn’t know anything about it. I just knew there was a kitchen I could use, so I spent a lot of time here. And the only Haus resident to graduate that year was Johnson, the goalie, and he just came up to me one day and said he was giving me dibs. I didn’t even know what it meant.”

Junior led the way inside, stopping in the living room where two large young men were sprawled on the couch playing a video game.

“Coach, this is Adam Birkholtz and Justin Oluransi, our captains this year,” Junior said. “Holster, Ransom, this is my dad, Richard Bittle.”

The young men paused their game and got up to shake his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bittle,” Justin said.

“You can call me Coach,” Coach said. “Pretty near everybody does.”

“I noticed,” Adam said, with a look at Junior.

“He’s the coach of the high school football team back in Madison,” Junior said. “So really pretty much everyone in town calls him Coach. I’m gonna put the groceries in the kitchen and show him my room, then get dinner started. Will you let everyone know that dinner will be ready at 6?”

“Sure thing,” Adam said. 

“Is Dex around?” Junior asked. 

“I think he’s upstairs studying in Chowder’s room while Chowder’s over at Farmer’s,” Justin said.

“Thanks,” Junior said. “I’ll see if he wants to give me a hand.”

Junior started up the stairs, and Coach followed. Junior’s room looked much like his room at home, without the figure skating awards. There were posters and pictures and some dirty clothes piled in a basket. He dropped his bag on his bed and pulled his computer out to charge.

“So those are the two that were finding you dates?” his father asked.

“Yeah, they tried,” Junior said. “It was actually because of that that I came out to the team when I was a freshman. I couldn’t stomach the thought of being here, where it’s pretty safe to be gay, and fake my way through dates with girls. But lordy, I was scared. I started with Shitty -- Mama calls him Mr. Crappy? -- and I had index cards and everything to help me get through it. Anyway, Shitty came with me to tell Ransom and Holster not to set me up with girls. I never thought they’d move on to setting me up with boys instead.”

“You never dated boys at home, did you?”

Junior almost choked.

“God, no,” he said. “It was bad enough in high school that everyone thought I was gay. If I tried to date someone and it got out … no.”

“I’m sorry,” Coach said. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Junior shrugged. “I didn’t want to tell you, because if you did anything, they’d know I told, and it would be worse.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Coach said. “I still wish I would have known.”

“The funny thing was that when Ransom and Holster set me up, the dates were almost always disasters,” Junior said, clearly changing the subject. “You know I never even really kissed a guy until Jack?”

“Can’t say that I did,” Coach said, hoping that more details were not forthcoming.

They weren’t. Junior was headed across the hall, tapping on the door and then opening it.

“Dex, if you need a break, I’m about to get a pot roast started and I could use a little help,” Junior said.

The boy in the room -- a ginger, with freckles all over his face -- said, “Give me about five minutes and I’ll be there.”

Junior clattered downstairs to the kitchen. He pulled out a well-seasoned Dutch oven and set it to heat with a little oil, then started cutting the meat into large chunks. He was rolling the meat in flour when the ginger -- Dex -- came downstairs. 

“Coach, this is William Poindexter. He plays defense and doesn't really live here, but he does more than anyone else up keep this place standing. He's also the most trustworthy cook besides myself. Dex, this is my father, Richard Bittle.”

Dex extended a hand to Coach. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You too, son,” Coach said.

Junior broke in and said, “I'm going to brown this meat and get a pie in the oven. If you could peel those carrots and potatoes, and maybe slice them and the onions, that would be a big help. And would you mind taking the pie out later? I want to walk Coach around campus.”

“Will do, Bitty,” Dex said. “Want me to do some dinner rolls? They can go in after the pie comes out.”

“That’d be great,” Junior said. “But I thought you were studying?”

To Coach, he said, “Dex is really good at making bread.”

“I've been working on that code for hours,” Dex said. “I deserve a break.”

Coach looked at Junior. “Don't you have two of those peelers? Give me one and I can help.”

Junior raised his eyebrows but pulled a peeler from the utensil drawer and handed it over.

“You think your mother does all the cooking all by herself when you're not home?” Coach said.

While they worked, he learned that Dex was from Maine, middle of five siblings and a computer science major. He also watched the way Junior flitted around the kitchen, adding seasonings and a bit of liquid (he wanted to raise his eyebrows at the bottle of wine, more because it had survived in a houseful of college students than because Junior was cooking with it).

He could tell this was Junior’s kitchen because it might as well have been Suzanne’s -- without the peeling tile, worn Formica counter or shelf of beer in the fridge. Everything was organized the way Suzanne would have done it, and Coach was confident he'd be able to find anything from pot holders to pasta on the first try.

Once the pot roast was in the oven, Junior pulled two disks of pie dough from the refrigerator and rolled them out. He mixed the filling for a cherry pie and was weaving a lattice when Coach and Dex finished the vegetables. 

Dex stood and started the prep dishes, while Junior said, “Just leave those there for now. Dex, can you check this in 20 and put the pie guards on if you need to? And take it out in about 50 minutes? The veggies should go in the pot with the meat at about 4:30, but I think we’ll be back by then.”

“Don't worry about it, Bits,” Dex said. “If you're not back, I got it.”

Coach and Junior put on their coats and headed out. 

“Let’s start this way -- we can walk through River Quad and then cross to Lake Quad, then head north to Faber,” Junior said.

As they walked, Coach said, “It’s nice you have someone else who likes to cook.”

“It is,” Junior said. “But he also wants dibs.”

“Shouldn't he get them if he does as much as you say?”

“I think so,” Bitty said. “But I’m not leaving dibs this year, and he doesn't do a lot of one-on-one favors for the seniors. We’ll see. It's funny though -- when he first got here, he seemed kind of shocked by, well, me.”

“Because you’re … Because you date boys?”

“Maybe,” Junior said. “But it would have been an assumption on his part, at least at first. It was the baking, and the collapsing on the ice if I got checked. He came around, though.”

They crossed the bridge and between two buildings into a wide grassy area with a well at the center. 

“That's the well,” Junior said, unnecessarily. “And that's the pond and the beach. That big building is Founders -- that's the main library -- and over there's the commons.” 

They walked along and Coach took in the campus. The trees were bare and the grass was grayish in the late winter chill, but he could see it would be pretty in the spring and fall. 

They went between the buildings to another quad. Junior waved his hand vaguely and said, “These are classroom buildings. That one’s where I have French, and that one’s my sociology class, and there's my calculus class.”

“How do you like your classes?”

“They're fine," Junior said. "I really like my sociology class -- it's all about what it means to be a celebrity, and how we make celebrities, and what that means about our culture. My history class is about the home front during World War II. And French and calculus -- well, I'm passing them at least."

"I'm glad to hear that," Coach said.

"Dex and Ransom and Chowder help with calculus -- they've all had it already. Jack helps me with French."

"Isn't he a little busy?"

"I know he is, but he says he doesn't mind."

They'd passed through another gap in the buildings, and Junior stopped to point out a large building with tall windows.

"That's Faber," he said. "The main gym is across the way, but Faber is where we skate. Want to go in?"

"Of course," Coach said.

The chemical scent of the ice filled his nostrils as soon as they walked in. There was some sort of public skate going on, with students skating lazy laps much like the people on the common yesterday. Nobody here was doing any figure skating moves, though.

It was pretty as rinks went, not an old Quonset hut or industrial cinderblock. The late afternoon sun shone through the windows giving the ice a warm glow if such a thing was possible. Junior stood next to him and looked his fill, then said, "Let me show you where the locker room is."

The team locker room was nicer than most Coach had seen, with individual stalls and wide benches. A hallway led to the showers. It was clean enough, but still smelled like a locker room. 

Junior looked at his watch and said "We'd better head back."

As the left the locker room, they met Lardo coming out of an office along the same hallway. 

"Hey, Bitty. I have the tickets for your dad and Jack. You want them now?"

"Sure," Junior said. "My dad can take his tonight."

"How often does Jack come?" Coach asked.

"Maybe once every three weeks or so," Junior said. "It depends on the schedules. But if we're at home and he hasn't got a game or another commitment, he usually comes."

"And it's not a distraction for the team?"

"Uh, Mr. Bittle, most of the team played with him," Lardo said. "If anything, he intimidates them less now than when he was captain. Now he's just Bitty's boyfriend. Who will always be welcome at Faber after playing here for four years, three as captain, and taking the team to the Frozen Four. Besides, he doesn't pull any of that celebrity crap. I guess maybe the tadpoles were a little awestruck at first, because Jack's living the dream. But they got over it."

They arrived back at the Haus and Junior disappeared in the kitchen -- "Why don't you sit here -- no, not on that nasty couch -- here and see if there's a game on? I'll bring you a beer."

Truth be told, Coach was glad to sit down for a bit. He left the TV off and considered. 

Junior had certainly changed and grown, and Coach's vision of him had shifted when he announced that was gay and had a boyfriend two months ago. Not that the gay thing was a complete surprise -- that was what had caused all his problems at home after all. 

But Coach supposed he had never expected Junior to be so matter of fact about it, to not see it as a misfortune. Coach had always sort of hoped it would turn out not to be true, that Junior wasn’t really gay, that he was just a late bloomer who one day would bring home a girl and get married and provide Suzanne and him with grandbabies to spoil, the way he was supposed to, the way other people did. But if that he never happened, well, Coach had been prepared to offer sympathy for his situation.

But here was Junior, looking mostly happy and healthy, not apologizing or asking for sympathy, with friends who liked him and a boyfriend who loved him. Maybe Junior was never supposed to be like Coach expected. After all, he'd been defying Coach's expectations since before he chose figure skating over football. 

And he was still doing it. Coach was embarrassed to admit -- even to himself -- that he had kind of assumed that any team that would offer Junior a scholarship wouldn't be that good. When Suzanne had returned from family weekend the first year with tales of Zimmermann hockey royalty, he'd assumed Jack was a washed-up has-been who'd pissed away whatever talent he'd had by partying too hard.

Then they'd had a hell of a run last year, making it to the national championship game, and Coach had watched. He'd seen the way Junior and Jack worked together, but it seemed like a fluke, one of those things where a great player makes the players around him better.

But Junior had seemed different last summer, more confident, more purposeful. Maybe like he was growing into himself. When Jack came to visit, well, Coach was pretty sure how Junior felt. He hadn’t known Jack well enough to be sure about him.

But this thing between the two of them -- it would be difficult. They’d have to keep it quiet, and seeing Junior now compared to the way he was before he went to school showed him how hard it had been on Junior to keep quiet just about himself. And if -- when -- people did find out, it would be even harder.

Coach hoped they knew what they were doing.

The door opened and two more young men came in. 

“Hello,” said one -- that had to be Chow, the goalie. “Are you Bitty’s dad? He was really looking forward to you coming. I’m Chris Chow, and this is Derek Nurse.”

“Hello, sir,” the one named Derek said. “Can we get you anything?”

“Thanks, boys, but no, Junior -- Eric -- set me here with a beer. I think dinner should be ready soon, though.”

“That you, Chowder?” Junior called from the kitchen. “Can you come and set the table?”

“Be right there, Bitty,” Chowder said. “Nursey’s here, too.”

Junior stuck his head in the room.

“Thanks, Chowder. Nursey, could you go upstairs and tell everyone dinner’s in five?”

Nursey nodded and headed for the stairs.

“What can I do, Junior?”

“You’re a guest, Coach. Just relax,” Junior said.

“I did relax,” Coach said. “Now I’m asking what I can do.”

“Uh, carry some of this food out? Junior said. 

What had started as a pot roast and pie had turned into pot roast, two pies, green beans, a salad and a fruit salad, and dinner rolls. Chow was carrying a stack of plates loaded with cutlery to the dining room. Coach started on the serving dishes, joined by Dex.

Five minutes later, Coach was seated with Junior and six of his teammates, digging into their food, discussing school and hockey and their disgust with the LAX team and hockey and whether Shitty would turn up with Jack tomorrow and hockey.

Coach felt like they were on something close to their best behavior, keeping their language mostly PG and trying to include him in conversation. He felt, not for the first time today, that Junior’s friends were a bit wary of him, protective of Junior, even. To hear them tell it, Junior was the glue that held the team together. 

Coach wondered what his football team would be like if they had a core group that had bonded together like this. If the heart of his team could get past their own jealousies and selfishness, they’d work much better together. Even the petty sniping between Dex and Nurse didn’t seem to have any real heat.

After dinner -- including the cherry pie and the pecan pie that Junior had pulled from the refrigerator -- the boys and Lardo cleared the table and started the dishes.

“Got them well trained, I see,” Coach said.

Junior snorted. “Took a few years. Took months to convince them that dishes should be washed after every meal.”

“I don’t think I could have gotten my college team to wash a dish to save my life,” Coach said.

“Did you cook for them?” 

“Got me there,” Coach said.

“I think we’re gonna watch the Falconers’ game, if you want to stay here,” Junior said. “I’ll get you another beer if you want.”

“Thanks, Junior,” Coach said. “If you want to get one for yourself, I won’t tell your mother.”

The game passed in a blur of hooting and hollering, as much about a player the team called Tater -- “His name is Mashkov, so like mashed potatoes,” Chow explained -- as Jack.

Several cans of beer were consumed, Coach noted, but no one had more than two. They did have a game tomorrow, he rememebered.

When the game was over -- a Falconers win -- and Jack appeared on TV, Ransom and Holster didn’t hold back on ribbing Junior.

“Look at your boy, Bits,” Ransom said. “Magnificent specimen of manhood there.”

Junior turned pink, but looked pleased anyway. 

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Coach said. “Will I see you tomorrow before the game?”

“Sure, if you want,” Junior said. “Game’s at three, so I have to be at Faber around 1:30. Brunch around noon? We can go to Jerry’s.”

The big blond one -- Adam -- was elbowing Justin in the ribs. “See? Even Bitty’s dad knows about Jerry’s. And he’s never been here before.”

“Good night, y’all,” Coach said to the room. “Junior, I’ll pick you up at noon?”

Coach did not pick Junior up at noon. Five minutes before Coach was going to leave, he got a text from Junior saying, _Jack got in early. Meet us at Jerry’s?_ and the address.

When Coach walked into the restaurant, Jack was seated on the same side of a booth with Junior. Both had coffee and menus.

Jack stood when he saw Coach and extended his hand.

“Coach Bittle, good to see you again,” he said. “Eric tells me we’re sitting together for the game.”

Coach nodded. “If that’s alright with you. I figured you could explain the fine points of the game to me. You played a heck of a game last night. What time did you get in?”

“I got home around 3,” Jack said. “But I really couldn’t sleep past 10, so I headed up here.”

“To make sure I eat a property balanced meal,” Junior said with a snort.

“You know it’s important,” Jack said. “Eating something like pancakes now would leave you sluggish for the game. Protein, whole grain, maybe a little fruit.”

“Yes, Cap,” Junior said. But he ordered egg whites with spinach and mushrooms, whole grain toast and a fruit cup.

Jack had a similar meal, just a bit bigger. It only made Coach feel better when he ordered the French toast.

The three of them made small talk during the meal, with Jack asking after Suzanne and Coach asking about Jack’s family and team.

“How do you like Samwell?” Jack asked.

“I like it just fine,” Coach said. “Reminds me of when I was in school, on a bit of a smaller scale. But it seems like a good fit for Junior. I’ve got to say the hockey house is in better shape than I was expecting.”

“I still want to replace that couch,” Junior said. “But Chowder would have a fit.”

“Well, people do have their superstitions,” Coach said mildly. “Maybe a slipcover?”

Junior giggled. “I didn’t even know you knew what a slipcover was.”

“Son, I’ve lived with your mother for 25 years.”

“True,” Junior said.

At one, Junior pushed away from the table. “I’ve got to get ready,” he said. “Take me back to the Haus?”

“Sure thing,” Jack said. 

“You want to come wait there?” Jack said to Coach.

“I guess so,” Coach said. 

They pulled up, and Junior grabbed what he needed and hopped back into Jack’s car, bringing Chowder with him.

“Everyone else already left,” Junior said. “Do you mind dropping us?"

“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack said. 

He took them to a side entrance, where Chow and Junior climbed out. Junior leaned over and gave Jack a brief kiss before heading in.

Jack turned and looked at Coach as if daring him to say something.

Coach just smiled at him. Really, he would hardly have noticed the kiss without Jack’s reaction.

Maybe he was more used to the idea of this than he thought.

“It’s nice to see him so happy,” Coach said.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Yes, it is. He’s been a lot less anxious since he told you.”

“Good,” Coach said. “Not that he was worried, of course. That it’s better now.”

“It means a lot to him that you came,” Jack said. “He really wants to make you proud.”

That took Coach by surprise.

“He knows I already am proud of him,” Coach said. 

“You’re sure about that?” Jack asked.

Then he put the car in gear.

“Come on,” Jack said. “I’m pretty sure we can find some pie at the Haus. We’ve got an hour at least.”

Jack was quiet while they ate their pie, but it didn’t feel hostile. Mostly it just felt like Jack was exhausted.

Jack perked up when they got to the game, paying attention as soon as the team took the ice for warmups. He watched the team skate, looking for any signs of hesitation or injury, then started a running commentary, telling Coach who was on the ice and what they were trying to do.

When Junior was on the ice, he pointed out how the plays were designed to take advantage of his speed, using him to move the puck up ice, then get behind the defense.

It was an effective strategy, Coach could see. It paid off in the second period when Junior netted a goal, his tenth of the year. If he’d looked warm and happy with Jack at the restaurant, he looked positively jubilant as his teammates embraced him.

The rest of the game wasn’t as easy, as the Brown team had marked Junior as a threat and always had a player near him. Jack whooped and hollered when Junior pushed off against the defenseman that shadowed him.

“Did you see that?” Jack said. “He pushed him! Next thing he’ll knock the guy down.”

Samwell ended up with a 4-2 win, and Junior had the game-winning goal. The sun was down, and Coach was ready to head back to Logan for his flight.

He waited with Jack outside the locker room. 

Junior emerged in a knot of his teammates and came over.

“Great game, son,” Coach said. “I can see why you like it so much.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Junior said. “I’m glad you came.”

“I am too, Junior,” Coach said. “I’m proud of you, you know. Not just your hockey, but your courage coming here on your own, and your life here. I’m proud to be your father.”

Junior’s face was pink.

“Wow,” he said. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. You feeling all right?”

Jack snorted next to him.

“Chirping your dad, Bits? Really?”

“Sorry, Coach,” Junior said. “I appreciate it, really. Tell Mama hello and give her a hug for me.”

“Will do, son,” Coach said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you’re surprised to hear that from me. I should have told you more often. And I should have come to see you before.”

“Yes, well, don’t be a stranger now, OK?” Junior said. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Junior,” Coach said. “Maybe I’m not the best at saying it, but I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)!


End file.
